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Train Story: TeeVee Brain

Wrapping my addled brain in some 80’s music, we settle in for the trip home. While Sisters of Mercy sing darkly about dominion and corrosion, I catch a snippet of conversation behind me and it shakes my reality like a dog with a new chew-toy.

He tells her that he can handle it and she shouldn’t worry. She, calmly but forcefully, disagrees and suggests that they collaborate on the solution rather than him doing anything alone. This back and forth continues for a time until he finally acknowledges her reasoning and agrees to her approach.

I assume that they are done and whatever it is that they will be doing will take place after they leave the train. But I am mistaken. Listening to them count down from five, I turn my head to try and see what’s going on when there is a flash of light and in the resulting din of shouting, I hear them finish saying something at the same time and I think I hear the word “activate!” I turn in time to see a rather large, slightly greenish badger dash towards the lower level of the train, and it appears to be covered in armor made of ice. There is a grand kerfuffle as the train arrives at the next station and in another flash and boom, the badger, along with one other passenger, vanish completely.

The Justice League is probably busy with bigger stuff around the globe, so I guess The Wonder Twins are tackling the smaller crime for the moment on the 1519 train home.

Train Story: Fidget Fury

Out of the dark and wet morning, she somehow finds her way into the train. That she managed to do so is a minor miracle in and of itself. She finds a seat after a lot of hovering, starting, stopping, and turning in circles. And once seated, she can’t stop fussing. Her coat comes off and back on more than a few times. She rummages in her handbag again and again. She shifts in her seat, arranges her perfect straight hair, and coughs and snuffles incessantly. All of her activity brings to mind both a budgerigar and a ferret. I thought briefly about putting a coat over her head to calm her down, but thought better of it.

Train Story: Viewpoint

A new year and a new decade looms. The off-gas from it is a mixture of hopefulness and fear. As the 1514 train rolls into the dawning light, he steps aboard with a squint and an expression of distrust. With a well-kept fedora perched on his head and dark-rimmed glasses with lenses thick enough to deflect bullets, he peers from one available seat to the next. It’s unclear what he’s inspecting or searching for, as his expression is unchanged. With a slight sigh of resignation, he lowers himself into a seat and opens his satchel. From it, he pulls out no fewer than five pairs of glasses in various cases and places them on the seat next to him. With a nod, he addresses himself to his arrayed specs, and comes to a decision quickly. With the greatest care, he switches the ones on his face for one of the other pairs and puts all the cases back in his bag.

Now adorned with a lovely pair of delicately golden wire-rimmed, ultra-thin eyeglasses, his expression changes, like a curtain being slowly opened, and he fairly beams with contentment and looks about the train. Lifting his head higher, he starts making eye contact with the riders and providing each a gentle smile in greeting.

As we step into this new year, it is a good reminder to think about our unique perspective and the lenses through which we see the world.

Train Story: Mystery Meat

He waits on the platform with a dozen others as the train pulls in. The apparent comfort of his backwards baseball cap, board shorts, and ubiquitous black tech company T-shirt belies his anxiety. As he waits, he fidgets and regularly looks over each shoulder, and then from side to side, as if expecting an attack from any direction. The train stops and as soon as the doors open, he dashed aboard, shouldering aside a few startled commuters.

Once in the train, he hurtles into a seat by the window, and watches the platform intensely. Only when the doors close and we pull away, does he seem to finally let out the breath he had been holding. He is carrying a small lunch container; one of those plastic boxes with small straps for handles. He puts it on his lap, holding it tightly.

If he is being chased for what he’s got for lunch today, the mind fairly reels at the possibilities.

Fear and Voting

I don’t often write about being Jewish. In fact, I’m not sure if I ever have before. I thought I would now in case some of you gentle readers would like context for the fear that has made itself very present in my life right now.

Through the science of genetics and DNA and things I don’t pretend to understand fully, I am very Jewish. Very. According to the estimate I received, I’m ethincally between 89% and 99% European Jewish. The 10 point difference is that the first estimate of 89% has been updated to 99%, but I still need to read more about that to understand the change.

The point being is that, regardless of practicing religion, being Jewish is an ethnicity. Perhaps you all knew that. But if not, it’s important, at least it is for me. I am not a religious person in the sense of organization and scripture and ritual. I attribute much of this to my parents. Alan and Frieda moved across the country, from New York to California, in the 1950’s in part to escape the religious expectations of their families. As a kid, we sometimes had a menorah and sometimes a Christmas tree. Sometimes both. We talked about other high holidays but very rarely. My parents’ beliefs were grounded in intellectual discourse, love for their children, doing one’s best, telling stories, and weaponized guilt.

But we were/are Jewish. And despite the lack of religion, there is always a deep connection to our ancestry and history. My ancestors were slaughtered in the pogroms of Russia and forced into the Pale of Settlement. Some found their way to the Iberian Peninsula and were subsequently threatened and killed and pushed out of Spain and Portugal. And thousands upon millions were murdered by the Nazis and their allies. My paternal grandfather and my maternal grandmother were immigrants. Their respective spouses were first generation Americans. This is not ancient history. These are my GRANDPARENTS. I never got to know any of them. I have a vague memory of my grandmothers from when I was very small, but all four of them were gone by the time I was 9. And we lived on the other side of the country and, as I mentioned, my parents left and, in some harsh and sad ways, didn’t look back.

I became keenly aware of what it meant to be seen as “other” in terms of being Jewish in grade school. One of my closest friends had just started attending bible school and, while we were playing together one sparkling Northern California afternoon, he suddenly shouted at me, “You Jews killed Jesus!” And he was really mad. At me. Our friendship changed that day and was never the same.

Not many years later, I attended a private boys school for 7th grade rather than join my friends at the local middle school. Most of the students who attended the school came there from the Catholic boys school up the road. I was the only boy in my grade who was not Catholic. And there was just one boy in 8th grade who was also Jewish. And it was pointed out regularly. I was bullied daily. The kid with the locker above mine punched me every day. Another would wait for me to ride into the schoolyard every morning and on several occasions, pull my bike out from under me. Now some of this was because I was a skinny, nerdy, weird kid but there were plenty of times in that year that I heard, “it’s that Jew kid,” or “he’s Jewish so I’m sure he can’t play sports”, or the like.

I was thankful to be back in public school from 8th grade onward and my high school was more diverse (well, honestly, the diversity bar was quite low at that point), but I was lucky to have a remarkable and pleasant high school experience.

In my freshman year of college, I encountered people from the Deep South for the first time. It was not my classmates that commented on my ethnicity; it was their parents. “Well, hi y’all! You must be our daughter’s little Jewish friend!”, one mother exclaimed.

The stories continued in various ways. Someone where I worked in Chicago would say “Did you jew them down?”, when asking about my negotiating with a vendor.

As I got older, I became better at correcting and pushing back. And eventually, partly I think because of where we live and who I choose to have in my life (something that is easier to do later in life, it seems), much of this passed into memory. It would emerge as I would do ancestry research or watch a movie or documentary, but I have been very fortunate, especially as compared to many others.

Which brings us to now. In this country. With this president. As other writers have pointed out, the rage against Jews in this country has always been there, it is not new. But it has not always been given the platform that exists now. You can hear it, constantly. When members of the Republican Party refer to “them”, or “International bankers”, or “Hollywood”, they mean Jews. All of us. And yes, I am calling that party out directly, but I also know the hatred exists throughout and across party lines. But this administration and those who support it or won’t do everything possible to check it and hold it accountable, are the reason I am afraid. Deeply. One historian noted that the similarities between what is happening in the US and what happened in pre-war Germany are there, but that we are well past the start of the nazi’s rise to power. The racism fomented by the president and those who support him are already at the stage where a minor tip of power and we will be rounded up and made to disappear.

I wrote this in the hopes that if even just one person in the range of my voice just didn’t understand the gravity of the situation and was thinking their vote doesn’t matter, and they will now vote for a democrat to replace the horrifying situation we are in, then it’s worth it. Do not sit this out. Do not think it doesn’t affect you or that you don’t have a reason to be involved.

I hope we will pass through this time and I won’t be afraid for me, for my husband, and our lives any longer. But that won’t happen without your help.